


To Catch A Pirate

by WestFunction



Series: Malfunctions [2]
Category: Pirate101 (Video Game)
Genre: And you rare Deacon simps - I got ya, Armada (Pirate101), Assassination Plot(s), Clothed Sex, F/F, F/M, For all you Armada simps, Gender-Neutral Pirate, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Masks, Porn With Plot, Robot Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WestFunction/pseuds/WestFunction
Summary: It's our pirate's big shot: the assassination of Rooke, Grand Admiral of the Armada. But a surprise appearance by Deacon leaves the pirate in a tight spot, and the Spymaster's modus operandi - capture the pirate at all costs - takes on an interesting meaning in an intimate setting.
Relationships: Deacon (Pirate101)/Reader, Deacon/Pirate, Deacon/The Pirate
Series: Malfunctions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934200
Comments: 15
Kudos: 15





	To Catch A Pirate

A pirate and a fox raced up a crumbling staircase.

“Apologies, captain, this scope is a bit finnicky.” Bonnie Anne wrested the scope back into position, jostling gunpowder into the muzzle of the gun. The pair kicked open the door to the final floor, Bonnie Anne’s fur catching as they rushed past a table of creepy instruments and a pile of fraying rope. Both pirates’ backs landed against the wall beneath the lone window, sending dust billowing into the air.

Sunlight filtered in overtop their heads, illuminating the room. The pirate surmised it was once a prison cell, given the creaky shackles on the wall and intimidating instruments on the table across from them. The bars on the window cast alternate lines of shadow and light on the crumbling stone floor.

“Looks like some unmentionable things happened here,” said Bonnie Anne, shivering. “But let’s focus. Old Lucius once told me, ‘you’ve got to get to know your weapon,’” she continued, now jamming a ramrod down the rifle barrel. “Now I don’t exactly know this beauty like the back of my hand, but you helped me build ‘er, and there isn’t a scratch on ‘er, so it’s worth a try. Let’s hope I can make the shot, eh, Captain?”

In unison, the pair turned to look out the window. The pirate readied their blunderbusses, taking a big gulp of hot air. Bonnie slipped her rifle between the rusted iron bars to aim at the ground below them. Wind rustled her fur. It was dead silent.

They heard off-tune whistling. A cat in formal pirate attire sauntered into the no-man’s land, where Bonnie’s rifle was pointed. He shot them a furtive wink and continued until he stood, hands on his cutlasses, in the centre of what had formerly been the Monte Royale courtyard. From past the pirates' line of sight, the sound of many footsteps rebounded. Evidently, Jack saw was able to see the strangers, for he extended his arms with a smile.

“Rooke, general sir, you made it,” he grinned. “I understand we’re discussing–”

His yelp made Bonnie Anne’s ears prick up. A band of soldiers advanced into the courtyard like a riptide, wielding deadly poleaxes in a sea of silver. Their sharp movements and sleek attire showed they were the clockworks of the Valencian Armada. The cat dropped his cutlasses and fell against the wall, sweat dripping down his fur, two blades criss-crossed at his neck.

“I-I-I don’t understand,” he mewled. “Where’s–?”

“And so the traitor is betrayed, Calico Jake,” said a familiar voice. “Your ploy couldn’t be more transparent. As if Kane would let his most powerful army general treat with a former _pirate_ without expecting the worst.”

The figure stepped into view. From far away, the pirate discerned a black mantle and a cocked hat lined with gold thread. On his face was a _larva_ mask, and in his gloved hands was a cane. “Kane sent me instead. I have informants, too. No doubt your despicable friends are here somewhere.”

_Bang!_

Calico Jake jumped as the bullet razed off the feather on his hat. To his right, an unfortunate soldier’s head spun round and round on its shoulders, before popping off and landing with a _thunk_ in the dirt. There was a moment of shocked silence. Deacon cast a meaningful glare toward the top of the tower, and a chill swept up the pirate’s spine like cold rain.

“I should thank you, Jake,” said Deacon finally, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You’ve narrowed my search by quite a bit.”

He turned to his soldiers. “Take him to his cell. The rest of you, come with me.”

The pair scrambled to their feet. Bonnie Anne lifted her rifle with wide eyes, incredulous she had missed her shot.

“A-apologies, Captain – I don’t know how that happened – how are we going to get out of here–?“

The pirate waved her off, as if to say, _there’s no time!_ and grabbed the fraying rope. The sound of footsteps echoed up the stairs. The pirate kicked away the rusted iron bars, pushing Bonnie Anne toward the window. She swung into the sky and grabbed the rope, a red blur in the wind, rifle clutched to her chest.

“What about you?”

The Captain gestured toward their holsters, then to the door.

Bonnie Anne smiled one last time. “You’re a fine captain, you know that?”

Bonne slid down the rope and out of sight, and the pirate listened to her take off toward the ship. They were alone, but not for long.

They dropped the rope and whipped toward the door, the sound of cannon fire in their ears. They barely had time to load their guns before the door crashed open and a sea of faceless armada soldiers flooded into the miniscule tower cell. Bullet by bullet, the clockworks entered and fell in puffs of gunpowder and flicks of sharp steel, some inches away from the pirate’s face – but what the army lacked in strategic positioning, they made up for in number. They filed in like ants, pressing against the wall, forcing the pirate ever closer to the window until the sweat of the pirate’s brow fell three stories into the dirt below.

A silver poleaxe swiped away one of the pirate’s blunderbusses with inhuman strength. The gun splintered in two easily, as if it were butter... _Five, ten, fifteen soldiers …_ The pirate put one hand on the ledge, only for it to slip, leaving them teetering in the open air. Outside the window, their skiff was locked in broadside combat with an Armada galleon, the ship Deacon must have arrived on.

With a shout, they regained their bearings and pointed their remining gun toward their attacker, only to find their neck forced back with a blade. Their labored breathing was the only sound in the room.

“We meet again, pirate. Drop your weapon,” Deacon ordered from the open doorway. When the pirate did no such thing, he gave a dry chuckle.

“I don’t think I need to tell you twice. The odds are against you.” He gestured to the small army of soldiers before him.

Glaring, the pirate let their blunderbuss fall from their hand. It fired when it hit the floor, and a soldier in the furthest rank fell to the ground almost comically.

“You ruffians certainly are a handful,” said Deacon, unfazed. A glint caught his eye, and he picked up a nasty-looking dagger from the table of weapons. On the end was a scrap of red fur.

“And there were two of you. Understandable, given your musketeer couldn’t even aim straight. Is that scope she picked up in Puerto Mico working out for her, I wonder?”

The pirate blanched. _How’d he know about that?_

“Finish this fox hunt,” he ordered. “Leave this one to me.”

The blades left the pirate’s chin. They gulped in air, rubbing their neck, and as soon as the door closed, they dove for their remaining gun. Deacon stepped on it and kicked it away.

The pirate looked up from their crouched position, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of their neck. A pirate without a weapon was about as useful as a wizard without a wand. Deacon withdrew his own firearm from within his black _tabarro_ and aimed it solidly between the pirate’s eyes.

 _This is bad._ Hands in the air, the pirate slowly raised themselves from a crouch and backed against the wall, staring alternately at the void of the gun barrel and Deacon’s unfeeling mask. Deacon kept walking until the two were face to face. The shackles on the wall pressed into their shoulder, and they braced themselves for the end, gaze flickering between the two eyeholes of his mask, heart racing.

Deacon reached for the shackles and clicked the pirate’s hands into the cuffs. The pirate looked up, wide-eyed, and tugged at their restraints, just as Deacon backed away to slip his gun into his cloak. The pirate gave him a quizzical expression.

“You’re wondering why I’m not escorting you to a cell in my ship, no doubt.” he said, putting the key in his breast pocket. The room darkened as the sun sank below the horizon, and Deacon walked toward the table of rusted instruments, his cane adding a _thunk_ to every other step. “Very well.”

He picked up a crimsoned Morningstar. He looked back at the pirate as if to gauge their reaction. “Us clockworks have unique directives.”

He put down the Morningstar as a slick cutthroat knife caught his eye. “Certain orders we must follow. _My_ instructions are to capture you at all costs, by Kane’s command.” The knife was so corroded that it left marks on his white gloves. “Those words. _Capture the pirate.”_

He picked up a whip. “These instructions are embedded in me. I cannot change them, and I cannot rest until they are completed. And I _must_ follow them to the letter: _Capture the pirate._ And you know,” his voice dropped dangerously, “the word _‘capture’_ has many meanings.”

The pirate froze in their struggle to remove the cuffs.

Deacon was staring at them with an unreadable expression, the explosions outside casting brilliant orange flashes on his mask. Casually, he tested the tautness of the whip. It snapped into a straight line with a _crack_ , sending the Pirate’s skin into flurries of goosebumps.

“To _capture_ you, fully, completely, and fulfil my orders … “

The pirate struggled against their binds, gulping down the anxious flutter in their throat.

“I must … _‘break your throne,'_ so to speak.” Deacon placed the tip of his boot flush against the pirate’s chest, right over the furious drumbeat of their heart. He threw his cane to the side and it clattered on the floor.

With marvelous dexterity, he wrapped the whip around the pirate’s shoulders and brought them close, the beaklike end of his mask slicing into their shoulder, the click of gears and rough breath caressing their ear. The pirate froze, shivering, holding their breath, the whip coiled round them like a boa constrictor. He remained like that for an eternity, like a museum statue. Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve heard that humans are quite _sensitive.”_ he whispered. “Too bad for you, pirate. I suggest you enjoy this while it lasts.”

Before they could blink away the dizziness, Deacon he drew a hand up their thigh, holding them close with the handle of the whip. His marksman’s fingers slid below their belt.

The pirate arched their back, fighting down a groan, recoiling at the strange mixture of sensations: his heavy breathing with his expressionless mask, the hot cut of the whip alongside his cool touch, the fear of being captured by their worst enemy and the thrill of enjoying it. Their mind spun in hypnosis.

 _Are all prisoners subjected to this?_ they wondered, watching Deacon unbutton his coat and unbuckle his belt, while his other hand moved wonderfully below the pirate’s midriff. _His programming – does it always tell him to … to …!_

They were interrupted when Deacon wrapped his hands around their shoulders. They felt as though they were being pulled into the void, the facsimile of a kiss. They leaned forward, wondering, _Why? Why would Kane leave such obtuse instructions in his spy captain?_

Captain.

_Captain._

_You’re a fine captain, you know that?_

… Bonnie Anne!

The pirate’s eyes snapped open, the spell finally broken, their shackles jingling in surprise, the static in their ears draining away. Their lips were a hair’s breadth from Deacon’s brilliant white mask. His breathing was slow, and his hands had stopped moving, as though in a dream. Shouts and explosions rebounded from outside the window. One of the voices must be Bonnie Anne’s …

The pirate heard screams and their blood surged full of adrenaline. The pirate drew away from Deacon, feeling the warmth leave their face. The spymaster fell back, confused, and reached for the Pirate’s chin to pull them toward him, but in the motions of his arms he didn’t notice the pirate slip the key out of his breast pocket and unlock their cuffs.

The pirate shoved Deacon away, jumping to their full height and relacing their breeches, and Deacon fell back like a ragdoll, reaching for the pirate as if he were falling off the ledge of a cliff, his mask hitting the floor with a _crack._

“Wait – Halt right there!”

The pirate swiped their blunderbuss from the floor and vaulted over the window ledge. Their cap fluttered in the dusky wind; from here they could see the broadside combat in full, their skiff’s sails alight with blazing orange flame, listing sideways in the night like a rogue star. The armada’s galleon was a pristine void that blocked out the skyway behind it. They heard scuffling behind them, and then Deacon was at the ledge, covered by his cloak, grasping the sides of their face in his hands. His mask was riddled with hairline cracks, and he stared at the pirate hungrily, as if something besides his mask had been shattered when the pirate pushed him to the floor. They tugged at his wrists with one hand, but that just made his grip tighter, and he drew their face toward his own like a cobra twisting around his prey.

The pirate pressed their lips to his icy mask. The explosions behind them lit up the tower in streaks of yellow and red. He released the pirate in surprise, as if not expecting them to reciprocate, the cracks in his face splintering. His fingertips ghosted the surface of their flesh as the pirate fell backward, legs tangled around the rope, and Deacon watched with disbelief as the pirate landed on the ground and made a running leap onto their skiff with nary a backward glance.

"It's about time! Their cells smell _awful!"_ said Calico Jake, pulling them over the starboard railing.

Bonnie Anne sighed in relief, fending off an Armada fusilier with a shot of her rifle. “I thought you were a goner for sure, alone with the Spymaster like that!” 

_"_ _Raise anchor! Raise anchor!”_ Calico Jake threw one of his cutlasses. It whizzed past the pirate’s ear and took down an armada soldier that was advancing behind them. The skiff groaned as it turned around, sails cracking into action as the wind sailed past the pirate's ears. The unwieldy Armada Galleon slowly but surely receded into the distance.

Looking back at the tower, silver in the pitch-black sky, the pirate was struck with an idea. They leaned over to inspect Bonnie Anne’s rifle.

There was an inscription on the scope – _fabricated in Valencia._

“What is it, captain?” said Bonnie Anne as the pirate took the metal in their hands. They peered through the scope at the tower – and the ghostly white mask that floated in its window. The crosshairs were slightly off centre.

A defective scope. A scope that Deacon had mentioned – one he must have planted in Puerto Mico for them to get. A scope he knew would be slightly off from its assassination target.

The pirate let the rifle fall from their shoulder, still smirking at the tower. Deacon’s face was but a pinprick in the distance, but somehow the pirate knew … he was smiling, too.

_Let the game begin._


End file.
